


The truth of our passion

by renardroux



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2011-2012, Buffalo Sabres, M/M, Masturbation, Pornography, Vancouver Canucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroux/pseuds/renardroux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miller and Ehrhoff engage in some team building exercises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The truth of our passion

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written on a dare, so I thank northern_star for the inspiration. Thank you as well to silverspotted for beta reading. Remaining flaws are attributable entirely to my own stubbornness.
> 
> Title from D. H. Lawrence: "Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art - or almost the only stuff."

"What the fuck, man?"

Christian snatches his phone back from Miller, whose surprised expression would be comical if Christian didn't know what Miller had just seen. 

One tap of the home key and the picture goes away, but Christian can't make Miller unsee it: the muscular, hockey-pale torso, biceps flexing as one hand pushes down a pair of non-descript black boxer briefs just enough to be undeniably sexual. And just enough visible smirk and jaw in the awkwardly cropped photo to make the model entirely recognizable. 

"You and _Bieksa_?" Miller still looks shocked, but he doesn't seem angry or disgusted. It's just the two of them left in the dressing room, and while Christian is stupidly, pathetically relieved that it doesn't seem like he's about to get a fist in the mouth, he'd still rather eat glass than talk about this. Miller crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the divide between his stall and the next one, staring down at Christian where he's seated on the bench, much of the surprise in his expression shifting to expectation.

Christian knows he's probably bright red, and that he's not getting out of sharing. "It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?"

"The team, the Canucks, they found out what I like. So they— the photos, they're. Rewards. Incentive."

"So, what, you score a goal, they send you soft-core? Is it. All of them?"

Christian thinks of his only one of Kesler, blurry and dynamic, someone else's hand — Burrows' probably — tugging Kes's shorts down one hip as he twists away. "Not— some of them. Not everyone."

Miller's quiet for a moment, staring still, and then he uncrosses his arms to reach a hand out to Christian. "Can I see the rest?"

There's no real reason to say no; the photos themselves are hardly more risqué than some of their magazine spreads (underwear ads, _Kes_ ) and their subjects won't know or even care, given the number of people who've already seen them out of embarassing-for-Christian context. And besides, Christian is new, the Sabres are Miller's show. He opens up the photo app and passes the phone over, then stares at his hands while Miller swipes through the album.

With just them in it, the dressing room is deeply, uncomfortably quiet, so much so that Christian startles when Miller huffs a little laugh. He looks up, but Miller's still focused on the screen, expression a combination of disbelief and amusement. He's probably on Raffi's photos by now; Christian doesn't ever ... _use_ those ones, but he appreciated the gesture.

Miller hands the phone back, finally, and Christian glances at the screen before clicking it off. This one's of Edler, head ducked, grinning slyly at the camera from under his bangs while cupping his dick through his underwear. It's Christian's favourite. His mouth goes a little dry.  
   
"They're not your teammates anymore," Miller says, and Christian nods. He's clear on that. He's a little less clear on the situation when Miller starts stripping. "They're not the ones who should be rewarding you."

"Wait, what?" Christian is not sure when this conversation took a left turn into porno-land.

"You scored a goal for the Sabres tonight," Miller says, conversationally, as he's tugging his t-shirt over his head. "You deserve a reward. From a Sabre." He toes off his shoes and shimmies out of his jeans, leaving him in his socks and boxer briefs. He's half-hard, and sexy in a rangy way, but he's going for the waistband of his briefs and that's just—

"No!— leave them on."

Miller grins and winks ( _winks_ ) as he stops pushing his underwear down and shoves a hand inside them instead, humming a little at the first touch of his hand to his cock.

Christian just watches, on edge from the unpredictable situation as well as his sudden crippling erection. He's so hard he can see his heartbeat through his trackpants. Meanwhile Miller is fisting himself slowly, making a show of it, the base of his cock visible above the waistband of his briefs on every downstroke.

"Do you want to take a picture?"

Christian does — he _really_  does. He fumbles with his phone until he's got Miller centred in the frame, skin so white against the navy blue of the jersey behind him. Miller's really going for it now, the overhead lights picking out the shape of his knuckles through his underwear and his head tipped to the side, mouth slightly open, chest heaving. Christian has never been the one to take the photo before; usually Bieksa took them, or Burr, or sometimes Edler, and always as a tease. A friendly indulgence.   
   
Christian taps the shutter button, and Miller groans at the artificial click, hips stuttering forward to fuck his fist, chin tipped down as he redoubles his efforts. Christian loses the plot in that instant, but sometime between putting the phone down on the bench and kneeling at Miller's feet he must have made the decision to take this further. His heart's beating in his throat at the thought of what his ten year contract will feel like if this goes badly, but it's warring with Christian's need to _see_. Christian's hands find their way to the front of Miller's shorts without his permission. He tilts his head back to catch Miller's eye and make sure this is okay, and finds Miller staring down at him, lust-glazed and panting.

"C'mon, Error, _touch_ me," Miller says, nearly moaning the words, and Christian can't _not_ obey. He tugs Miller's underwear down just until his cock is exposed, still wrapped in his fist, and cups his balls through the fabric of his briefs. 

"Yeah, c'mon, c'mon,"

Christian leans in and presses his open mouth against Miller's underwear, just below the waistband, huffing a hot breath through the fabric. The reaction is immediate; Miller shudders from shoulders to knees and whines high in his throat, left hand coming down to clutch Christian's head as he comes all over his own knuckles. 

Miller shivers through the aftershocks, hand clenching rhythmically in Christian's hair as he shakes. Christian just stays there with his face pressed to Miller's hip while he fumbles to push his own pants and underwear down to his knees. Getting his hand on his cock feels like throwing water on a grease fire; he's too turned on for it to even be a relief. He jerks himself hard and fast until his orgasm hits like a wrecking ball and he comes in stripes on the fancy carpet.

He loses a little time, just drifting in the feeling of being turned inside out and then righted again. When he comes back to himself it's to find Miller squared away, holding a Gatorade towel out for Christian as he pets Christian's hair. 

"Thank you," Christian says. He takes the towel and reluctantly pulls away to clean up.

"I'd say 'any time'," Miller says with a wry little grin, "But nah, you're gonna have to earn it."


End file.
